Briar (Forbidden Fairytales #4)

1. Briar

Briar

“ Absolutely not .”

Stifling my sigh, I avoid my father’s steely-eyed glare as I duck around the table, packing my sketchbook and tablet into my bag. “You don’t think it’s time? I’m twenty-six years old, Papa. Most people fly the nest well before now.”

Most people have a life that doesn’t revolve around their parent.

“Most people don’t have the… fragilities , that you do.”

I press my lips together for a moment before responding. “I’m not as fragile as you think. Not any more.”

Maybe I was, once. But I haven’t been that child for a long time, even if my father insists on keeping me in the same glass box.

“Briar.” His voice is cajoling now. “Look at me, sweetheart.”

Frowning, I glance up. My father is watching me, his head tilted. He’s dressed as he always is, whether it’s the middle of the week or a Saturday morning – ready for another long day in the office. His eyes run over me as if I’m a contract he’s examining for flaws. “I know this hasn’t been easy for you. But you will be moving into your own home soon enough. Once things are settled with Philip—,”

“I haven’t said yes to that.”

My words hang in the air between us, adding a sharp edge to our discussion that has my father’s shoulders stiffening. “I thought we had settled this.”

I straighten. May as well toss it all out there now. “No. You thought you had settled this. With Philip. Without any input from me. And if anyone gets a say in their own wedding, it should be the bride-to-be.”

Not that I am a bride-to-be. I’m fairly sure that you need to actually be asked to qualify. Both of them seem to have skipped that step and moved straight into the prenuptial agreement.

“It’s an incredibly advantageous match.” My father only shows his irritation in the tapping of his fingers on the marble island in our kitchen, the slight furrow of his graying eyebrows. He assesses me as if looking for weaknesses. For the chink in my armor that will give him the angle he needs to get me to agree. It’s a move he’s used all my life, both at home and in the courtrooms he spends most of his time in. “He’ll look after you. I’m not going to be here forever—,”

“I don’t need to be looked after .” My voice rises along with my frustration. “I’m not a pet!”

My father only sighs. “You know I don’t engage with hysterics, Briar. How do you expect to be treated like an adult when you insist on acting like a child? How would you even live, if I wasn’t here?”

“I have my own business,” I say stonily. “Maybe it’s not law , but I hardly sit around all day, waiting for someone to take care of me. I would manage. I could manage.”

Hell, I want to manage. That’s the whole point of this conversation that I can already tell is going absolutely nowhere.

A small scoff slips from him. And it should hurt, but I’ve heard so many similar noises from him whenever I talk about my work that it only bounces off me. Straightening, I hook my bag over my shoulder and tighten the sash on my sleek black coat. “And it is not acting like a child to want to be part of a discussion that will shape my entire future. Any reasonable person would want the same.”

“Any reasonable person would understand that we only have your best interests at heart, and the experience to arrange this properly in a way that is best for you. Not throw a tantrum because they would rather play with fabric in a drafty building than have a comfortable life with a man any other woman would jump to marry.”

My temper bursts. “Then let them have him. You’re scared, Papa. I know that you lost Maman. But you are not going to lose me – not unless you keep insisting that you know better than I do in every aspect of my damn life!”

I already know I’ve made a misstep before I see his face shutter. Any mention of my mother will have that effect. His body stiffens, his face turning away. His voice is low as he sets his cup down and stands. “I didn’t realize that caring about my daughter’s wellbeing was such an unforgivable crime.”

And just like that… he’s disengaged completely from the point I was trying to make, reaching for his own bag. “If you insist on going to that drafty pit today, Henri will drop you off on the way in.”

His driver. Because I have no car of my own, thanks to his paranoia. Another concession I’ve made, to ease his worry.

And I’m so damn tired of trying to make the same point. “Thank you, but I’ll walk.”

“Now you’re just being petulant. Get in the car. He’s outside.” He doesn’t look at me as he walks past, through the kitchen door and into the marble hall.

I stay where I am, furiously debating in my head while my father puts his coat on and picks up his briefcase. Saying all the things I want to say, the points that sound eloquent in my head but get tangled up and emotional when I try to say them out loud.

“Well?” He’s not even looking at me as he holds the door open with one hand and checks his phone with the other. So certain that I’ll do as I’m told after a lifetime of bending against his will.

I glance past him to the pouring rain outside. The day is gray and damp, the kind of rain falling that soaks through clothing in seconds and makes you feel as if you’ll never be warm again. Henri is shivering already, huddled beneath a black umbrella as he holds the back door of the Jaguar open. It’s only the guilt at making him wait any longer than necessary that has me darting past my father without another word.

Henri, more wrinkled and a little more fragile now than he was when I was a child, offers me a polite smile as I duck past him and into the heated, luxurious backseat. “Morning, Miss Everett.”

“Morning, Henri.”

Staring out of the window, I wait as my father climbs in and sits opposite me, tugging his paper from his briefcase before he speaks. “Philip is coming for dinner on Friday. His mother will be accompanying him.”

His words are terse. He doesn’t ask for my agreement, or if I have any plans.

He never does.

We both know that I have no plans. No friends. No social life outside of the carefully curated activities my father has chosen over the years – no doubt with input from Philip, to ensure I’m well trained for the moment he decides he’s ready to settle down. We’ve been dancing around this arrangement for years, and all of the polite hints I’ve tried to make have made no difference.

My throat tightens and I nod once, swallowing around the phantom hand wrapped around my neck, threatening to cut off my air.

It’s a familiar sensation. As though I’m slowly suffocating beneath the weight of my father’s influence.

Every day it feels as though I die a little more. There is a little less air. A little less of me . The arguments are becoming fewer. The nodding is more frequent.

Briar Rose Everett – the girl who craved adventure, excitement, and love, just like the great stories she read every night before bed – that girl is fading. Buried under expectations, and agreements, and cool, polite civility when discussing something as life-changing as marriage.

She’s dying before she even had a chance to live.